My favorite singer is Rufus Wainwright, my favorite actress is Judy Garland, my favorite movie is Grey Gardens. Madonna and Andy Warhol are my idols. I love disco, sequins and Bea Arthur...is there something wrong with this picture? It's started to become painfully clear to me that my tastes make me about ten times more ostentatious than Katy Perry drunk singing in that gay bar on YouTube (or wearing a feathered Bob Mackie headdress in Vegas for that matter)
It started way back in high school, when I'd force my friends to come to Halloween screenings of Rocky Horror Picture Show and watch 54 over and over again. Then there was the summer that my gay best friend and I would listen to Madonna's Confessions on a Dancefloor all day, every day.
My condition worsened (or bettered?) last summer, when Robin and I religiously attended B Bar's weekly gay nights like we had some sort of stake in it. "Oh we have to go with Jim and his friends (or Chris, or Cliff or any other cute gay friend for that matter), or else we won't be able to get in!"...like, what? Oh and there was also that night in Chelsea when a crossdressing fortune-teller told me that the reason I wasn't in relationship was because I was spending too much time at gay clubs... (I should probably also mention that every one of my close friends refers to one another as a Tran)
It's like my life is George Michael's Freedom video (complete with models...) on repeat. It's like my life is that scene from Sex and the City, when Charlotte confronts her maybe-gay pastry chef boyfriend (except somehow, I'm Charlotte and the pastry chef) "Is this Cher?"..."Yeah I love her! She's such a survivor!"
Is it possible that in my quest for fabulous, I've graduated from the ranks of fag hagdom? Dear God it's me Margaret...am I gay man trapped in a fag hag's body?
To make my point crystal clear, I've pulled together a few songs that keep finding their way into my Most Listened To playlist on Itunes...